


Pardonnez-Moi

by Thimblerig



Series: Soldiers Three [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Attempt at Humor, Backstory, Concerning the Care and Feeding of Cats, Friendship, Gen, I got my research from The Google.Com, Mood Whiplash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4296207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or, The Duel.</p><p>1. In Which There Is No Breakfast To Be Had.<br/>2. Concerning The Adoption Of Stray Cats.<br/>3. In Which Athos Keeps Two Of His Appointments, And Is Invited To A Third.<br/>4. An Event, Long Awaited, At Last Comes To Pass.<br/>Epilogue: In Which Handkerchiefs Explain Themselves, And Aramis Makes Another Friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which No Breakfast Is To Be Had.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a translation of the refrain from the old song "We Be Soldiers Three": "Pardonnez-moi, je vous en prie?" ("Pardon me, can I help you?")
> 
> This is a different continuity from my earlier story, "Soldiers Three".
> 
> I've used some elements from the book. If you recognise them, you'll know how I abused them; if you don't, then don't worry about it.
> 
> Warnings: some swearing, some reference to alcohol abuse and depression, reference to canon-typical class and race discrimination. Threatened and real violence (not-graphic). No clowns have been harmed in the making of this fic.
> 
> Special thanks to Daisy Ninja Girl, who followed me into this fandom and then started egging me on.

Aramis did not belong to a _good_ regiment. Well, he did and he didn't. Under Treville, that fierce Gascon, the King's Musketeers had fought, flaunted, finagled, and fidgeted themselves a reputation for gallantry and extreme competence that served them well. But still... a noble's son with money to burn and a yen to be a soldier bought his colours in a heavy cavalry regiment, something with history and class. Meanwhile, Monsieur Treville recruited the sons of his heart from the shabby genteel: fourth or fifth sons of lesser nobility, firebrands from the provinces, gentlemen discreetly introduced as 'the ward of Madame de C__' or 'the Comte de la F__, his nephew', boys clutching recommendations from the _oddest_ people, and those, like Aramis, who found their old names did not suit, quite worn with use, and replaced them with something with a little more panache. The poor, the proud, the picturesque. And the hungry.

They had been cursed with the one honest quartermaster in the military, is the problem. Serge was perfectly ready to supply an accounting of what he did with the funding of the Hotel de Treville: how much went to weapons and practice powder and caring for horses. He often did. Aramis could only feel that a man with a bit more sin in his soul would eat better, as would Aramis. But the mess, lacking additional donations from its penurious beneficiaries, was sadly lacking - a body might survive on Serge's everlasting pot of potage, but a man could not _live_.

And so Aramis prowled the dark streets of Paris in the manner of an alley-cat or an old soldier, maintaining many friendships and searching for his dinner. Alas, _this_ time his friend of the night, the lovely Madame L_, _really did_ only want to discuss poetry and philosophy - it was a delightful evening revisiting the classics, but she did not invite him to stay for the night or, not to put too fine a point to it, for breakfast. It was now a time to pace under the rustling chestnut trees of the Rue de la Pompe, composing an ode to the crescent moon and her empty belly, and wax philosophical.

He turned a corner and saw two things of note - a white cambric handkerchief languishing on the dark cobbles and a mounted chevalier in a fine feathered hat trotting away from it at a fast pace. Pausing only briefly to admire the hat (he had one in a similar style), he quickly knelt to whisk up the handkerchief. It was of a delicacy that clearly marked it a lady's property, far too good for the bitter road. And - such things should be taken care of discreetly or else people might get... fanciful ideas about the handkerchiefs' owners. Aramis straightened to call to the chevalier in a soft voice, at which point he had the first of two fateful encounters destined for that night, as a stranger reeking of alcohol cannoned into him from a narrow side street.

"Your pardon!" Aramis snapped, staggering and grasping at the other man's right arm for balance. A bottle dropped and spun on the cobbles. The handkerchief fluttered away. The other man snarled and shoved at him, hard. Aramis dug in and they spun around each other like dancers before whirling apart.

"I demand satisfaction!" the other man spat out, bristling and wild-eyed.

 _"You_ pushed _me,"_ corrected Aramis. "What need have you to rush, on this quiet evening?"

"None at all, but I will have satisfaction."

Aramis' lip curled. He doffed his feathered hat and made an elaborate obeisance over it. "Aramis of the King's Musketeers, your _most_ humble _servant_."

"Athos," said the other simply.

"And of that grim and chilly aspect, I see." (For he knew that 'Athos' was also the name of a mountain.) He named a little church he knew of, abandoned, with a yard most useful for trysts of one kind or another. "Meet me there at noon." He was normally kinder to inebriates, but this one had an air that brought out the worst in Aramis' mercurial nature. He turned and strode to where the fine white handkerchief languished in mud and whisked it up curtly. Then he paused, as he saw a dark glistening stain on the palm of his hand. Was that... blood?

He turned to see his recent assailant examining with disfavour his own right hand, where blood dripped freely from a wound hidden by his dark sleeve and the dim light - he turned and a gash in the sleeve ripped wider by Aramis' grasp became visible. "Not _again,_ " said Athos, rolling his eyes. He swayed gently in the street.

Oh.

"Perhaps," suggested Aramis, with careful diffidence, "I might tend that wound before we fight? I have some small skill with my fingers," he said, waggling the digits in question. 

"It is of no consequence," said Athos briskly, "I fence quite well with my left hand."

"But you are bleeding quite severely, sir. I ask you, how would it look if I were slaughtered by a man at death's door?" said Aramis, "I'd never live it down."

This argument convinced the man and he allowed himself to be sat down on a set of steps, his jacket unbuttoned, and the torn and bloodstained rags of his shirt sleeve drawn back that the wound might be examined. It was a long gash, not deep but a bleeder. Aramis rinsed his arm with the last of a bottle of very good Bordeaux and, for lack of better equipment, bound it with a cambric handkerchief of his very own. Athos watched him intently throughout the procedure, and when the wound was cleaned, seemed to wince less at the sting of the alcohol, and more at its loss as a potable beverage.

"How drunk are you really?" inquired Aramis, as he knotted the cloth.

"Not as much as I would like to be," answered Athos with feeling. "It is my anniversary."

"Ah..." breathed Aramis. He knew all about anniversaries. "Let's get you home." 

But the man fell asleep, quite suddenly, his head falling onto the crook of Aramis' shoulder.

"Pardon me, can I help you?" rumbled a deep voice.

Aramis looked up, and up, and up...

"While you manhandle my friend, that is."

_to be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drunk!Athos - brings out the urge to clobber and the urge to feed in almost everybody.
> 
>  _Serge's everlasting pot of potage_ \- potage = boiled grain with whatever vegetables and scraps of meat you can throw in. Probably pretty healthy, but considered 'peasant' food at the time. (I've been having trouble hunting down references to what people actually _ate_ in the 1620s and '30s, or what would be served in an army mess. Please forgive me any inaccuracies. In any case, heroically hunting for dinner comes from Dumas' book.) 
> 
> _it was a delightful evening revisiting the classics_ \- my head-canon says that Aramis, when he's alley-catting around, is discreet and charming and clever in bed, but also - if his friend only wants to read poetry or smooch a bit he is totally down with that without anyone feeling pressured. And he is very popular. (Too bad about the breakfast this time.)
> 
> The Rue de la Pompe almost certainly did not exist in the real 17th century. I needed a name. In the absence of a reliable period map for my perusal, _this is what we get._ (It was known for the chestnut trees, though, so there's that.)


	2. Concerning the Adoption of Stray Cats.

Porthos only cheated at cards with people he disliked. As a pastime it offered intellectual exercise, the acquisition of lucre, and the possibility - if his mark were sharp-eyed or short-tempered - of an energetic brawl to stimulate the sanguine and choleric humours, a brawl which would in turn lead to the near certainty of somebody's obnoxious nose getting smashed in.

He confided to Aramis, as they wheeled a purloined wheelbarrow through the quiet streets, that at one time its gently snoring cargo's nose had been a prized target for that, when he first came back to Paris from the wars with a coat, a sword, and a letter from Treville.

(Aramis brightened. "The Captain's probationer!" he declared. " _That's_ where I've seen you before.")

Porthos had been in the army for years, working his way up from the lowest of ranks to a sergeant by the time he got to the bitter fighting at the Ile de Re. Though he confessed to Aramis that he had no dislike for the Huegenot rebels (Catholics and Protestants damning themselves with equal grace), there the choleric and sanguine humours had flowed in abundance. After the worst of it he had met Captain Treville of the King's Musketeers for the first time: a bluff, leathery man who had summoned him to his operations tent and stared with eyes like blue diamonds. 

"You survived _les enfants perdus_ , the lost children," the Captain had said at last.

"I'm a lucky man," Porthos replied, grinning. 

"I don't think so," said Treville, and Porthos had shown his teeth some more. (He was still half-drunk from the forlorn hope at the time, on wine and the shock of the shittiest fight he'd ever seen, the thrill of _surviving_ as they fell around him like coals to a fire 'til all that was left was _him,_ the biggest cock that ever crowed on a dungheap, and the reinforcements coming up behind had faltered at the sight...) But the Captain simply stared him down in the manner of a disapproving school-master (or so Porthos imagined a school-master would do).

"You're strong and you're smart," he had said quietly, "and any regiment can use that. You've guaranteed yourself a promotion through your deeds, Sergeant." He'd tapped a finger on his weapon belt. "But."

"But I ain't no gentleman, am I right? Please excuse me for wasting your time." Here it came, where he got dismissed as a brute thug good enough to bleed and nothing more...

"Can you read?" asked the Captain.

 _"Yes,"_ he'd snarled.

"Good," said Treville, and tossed him the letter. "You will hate this," he warned. It was an introduction to the Gentleman's Academy in Paris - an introduction and a waiver of fees. "You will polish your swordsmanship and riding, learn etiquette, elocution, table manners... dance. All those skills are needed if you're to be in the same room as the King. If you think you can learn them, that is."

It was a challenge and Porthos took it as such, his chin lifting in defiance.

The Captain had nodded. "Dismissed!"

It hadn't been easy coming back. Paris was a hard, beautiful city, fickle in her grace, and Porthos had long since lost touch with any friends he had there. He'd had to make his way alone, stretching the remains of his soldier's pay like watered soup. As predicted, he hated his time at the Gentleman's Academy. It wasn't even the hazing, although he shrugged off his share with a grin and a twirl of moustaches - it was hard to take seriously skinny boys only recently weaned off their mother's teats, constantly comparing the lengths of their swords and discussing, _in strictest confidence_ , their secret liaisons with the highest ladies of the Court, the golden-haired Comtesse de L_ or the wild Madame de C_. Porthos had his share of followers, also, starry-eyed kids desperate to know what a real battle was like, who aped his gold earring and bandanna to show their manly grit. The boys he coped with well enough, but he did not belong in that place. He was a dancing bear stumbling around pretty birds and narrow-snouted dogs, struggling to master a thousand thousand mincing little mannerisms: the tutors wanted him to remake himself. He did not know if he could do that again, and he did not know if he wanted to.

(Aramis tilted his head quizzically at this last, but held his tongue.)

And then there was Athos, who taught fencing at the Academy when he could fit it into his busy schedule of drunken binges and hang-overs; Athos No-Last-Name who flaunted his ruination in Porthos' teeth. Athos the sword-master who nagged about every niggling detail of Porthos' grip on his sword and managed to stroll past him lurching through a galliard to comment on pointing his toes in the _cadence_ and the angle of his foreleg in the posture. "Graceful as a fawn," drawled Athos as he drifted by in a toxic cloud of turned wine fumes.

It wasn't that he wished the patronising fuck harm, as such. But some noses are prettier when broken.

But that fight, and that nose-breaking, would be better if begun by Athos. There are... expectations of a man of Porthos' size, of his colour, of a sergeant who had worked his way up from the ranks. It was always better if the other man swung first. Porthos had honed his skill in making that happen.

("Is this a productive use of your time?" Captain Treville had asked at their monthly dinner.

"Manoevring him into picking a fight he'll lose?" answered Porthos. "'Sgood practice for war, innit."

"Hmmm," said the Captain.)

"I had it all set up - a card tournament at the Lily-in-Splendour, with a marked deck and enough strong wine to put even his liver to sleep. I'd won a month's rent out of the play before we even sat across from each other, and by the glitter in his eyes he knew what I was about. He just couldn't prove it." Porthos hummed in his throat and adjusted his grip on the wheelbarrow handles. "Or maybe he'd run out of caring for the night, there's that.

"I palmed a card and reached for the wine, just as he did. But then: 'I _beg_ your pardon?' someone muttered. 'No, no, I beg yours, for I see you have dropped this card with its charming and individual decorations. Forgive me for crumpling it with my boot.'" Porthos snickered. "It wasn't even my deck: I weren't the only card-sharp in there. Someone knocked our table sending my winnings all over and spilling the wine all over him - for a man to lose his drink like that? We were away."

"Losing the drink, hell," mumbled Athos from the depths of the wheelbarrow. "That was my last unstained shirt."

There was a brief silence, as the others pondered the general state of Athos' linen.

"I do have _some_ standards."

"We are all of us terrorised by our laundry-women," said Aramis at last, in a soothing manner. "And then?" 

"They that break heads together, often break bread together?" aphorised Porthos. "Summat like that." He adjusted a fold of Athos' disreputable cloak over him and shook his head ruefully: "Some arseholes you just wanna bring in out of the rain, yeah?"

"You are still back-heavy in _sixte_." 

"Well, you need to put your hips into wrestling, or th'next time you try a flying mare _you'll_ be the one going over, mate."

"Your sword."

"Your horse."

Aramis clapped him on the shoulder, "I hope the Captain arranges your commission soon," he said.

"As do I," answered Porthos, "Card-sharping aside, I could do with being on a regular soldier's ration again."

Aramis' smile drooped.

_to be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three is a recalcitrant little thing, but I hope to get it up by Sunday night, if the fanfic gods are willing.
> 
>  _you survived les enfants perdus_ \- "the lost children" - the French name for a forlorn hope, that is to say, a group of soldiers sent into an insanely dangerous but necessary military operation. Survivors were frequently guaranteed a promotion. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forlorn_hope) I figure Porthos must have joined the regular army as a ranker and then done something _spectacularly_ heroic to even get his foot in the door of the King's Musketeers. This works well enough, and is a weirdly appropriate phrase given the rest of his background.
> 
>  _the biggest cock that ever crowed on a dungheap_ \- mighta lifted that out of a _Sharpe's Rifles_ novel, actually. Please don't shoot me - I couldn't think of a better phrase.
> 
>  _"Manoevring him into picking a fight he'll lose?"_ \- I hadn't seen _The Prodigal Father_ when I wrote this, and was trying to indicate that Porthos was a tactician and good at people... considering what Belgarde was like, though, this speech must have _creeped Treville out_.
> 
> This chapter doesn't have much of a moral - "Someone giving you solid technical advice, but in an obnoxious way, deserves to be assaulted?" "Tavern brawls are good diplomacy?" "When in doubt steal a wheel-barrow: nobody important will miss it?" Ummm...
> 
> Hot dang - I beat 2,000 words! (This does not often happen to me. :-( )


	3. In Which Athos Keeps Two Of His Appointments, And Is Invited To A Third.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. RL happened. :-(
> 
> (I was worried that I was making Athos too obnoxious in this chapter but hey, I just saw 2.05 The Return, and my doubts were assuaged.)

Athos was aware that since he... moved to Paris... he had rather let things go, but he was not a total sloven yet. 

That said, there are things a gentleman living on his own simply cannot do for himself. Complementarily, many otherwise happily married women acquire extra funds for their household finances with a little side enterprise. In a quiet neighbourhood, Athos knocked at a back door.

"How nice to see you again. Come on in, Athos."

"I have no time, Madame."

"Ah well. In any case, I mended the slice in your jacket sleeve. At least it was a clean cut this time (I could have been a glover, me.) Your second-best shirt is now your fourth. How about I make you a new one? There's a length of a nice blue-grey I could use: not the finest material, but it's sturdy and won't show the stains. As much."

"Perhaps another time, Madame."

"Here's the hanky, and I'm throwing in a baguette; we had extra this morning."

"Yes, Madame."

"I'll see you next month."

"Indeed, Madame."

"And don't get yourself killed: we need the money."

"How could I refuse a request so courteously phrased, Madame Bonacieux?" 

MMM

The rest of the morning was filled with teaching at the Gentleman's Academy, but as his students had no intention of remembering any scrap of his lessons, he had no intention of remembering those students. He saved the afternoon for master-classes with the two fencers worthy of the name. The first was a tall, wiry man by the name of Jussac, rather brown, as flexible as a snake and with a flat, wide mouth like that friendly reptile.

They spent a strenuous hour and a half in the salle working on drills and free-sparring. Jussac was good enough that Athos needed to keep a sword in his dominant arm, and the half-healed wound burned at the end of it. When he finally called a halt the sweat streamed freely from both of them. Jussac nodded equably as he pulled off his shirt and reached for a fresh one. 

"Forgive me, maestro," he said, "for I will not be at tomorrow's lesson. I am otherwise engaged."

"As you wish," said Athos. "It is all one to me."

Jussac's wide mouth fell, then, and he expressed his distress at eluding his great teacher. Then he proffered a bundle wrapped in soft white linen. 

"What is this?" asked Athos, with some irrelevance, for the package unswathed itself as a bottle of very good brandy.

"I made so much money in my last duel," said Jussac. "I felt it only right to share the largesse with my teacher."

Athos' eyebrow ticked up eloquently, though he himself remained silent.

"I am such a beautiful killer because of you. Thank you, maestro. Thank you. Thank you."

"Your pardon," Athos said. "I had misunderstood the intent with which this was given." 

He took the bottle.

MMM

By evening he was comfortably numb and esconced in his favourite chair in the Field-of-the-Cloth-of-Gold. A shadow briefly blocked the rushlights, and then there was a warmth at the back of his neck. "Remove your hand or I will remove it for you," he said crisply.

"I had a friend used to say that, every time she had a belly-ache," rumbled Porthos equably. "She was a hell of a biter, too."

The warmth vanished, and the big man settled himself in another chair. "This is me not asking why you blew off a private lesson I paid good money for - for which I paid good money." He held out a horn cup and Athos filled it from the bottle of brandy. He smacked his lips. "Good stuff, this. Puts heat in your belly." He swung up an arm and called, "Over here, Aramis!"

A face moved into his vision, a construction of black eyes, golden skin, and smug moustaches, topped with a feathered hat. "The knight of the wheelbarrow!" the face said cheerfully. The feather wagged.

Athos stared at the feather. "I have your handkerchief," he said, placing the article in question on the table.

"Indeed?" said Aramis. He clapped his hand over his breast and tugged out a lacy corner. "I shall have to return the other then. I shall be desolate." He warded off Porthos' hand questing for the lace. "Ah-ah - as it lacks As or Ps, it can be neither mine nor thine. I wonder what she's like," he mused happily. 

"Fond of breakfast, I hope," said Porthos.

Athos felt that he had drunk either too much or not enough brandy to contribute to this conversation in a meaningful way. He added drink to it instead.

"Don't mind if I do," said Aramis cheerfully, raising his beaker. But before he could drink a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, spilling the amber beverage. His black eyes sharpened. "Your pardon?" he drawled, turning, with a hand easing to his sword.

"I recognise that hat," said a heavy-set man in a richly embroidered doublet.

"Indeed?" said the musketeer. "My hat does not believe it has been introduced to you."

"Lord Ainsley," said the man, his beaky nose set proud in a florid face. "In service to the English king."

"My hat owns one Aramis, in service to the French king. Pardon me, sir, but what does this happen to be about?"

"Was your hat not seen near my house on the Rue de la Pompe not three nights ago?"

"Hmm," said Aramis, "perhaps it was and perhaps it was not. Did said hat also own a leggy Andalusian, high-stepping, with a sock on the off-fore foot?"

"Yes!"

"I have no such horse in my stables," he said virtuously. "I could lead you through them myself."

"Are you saying my wife is not pretty enough to attract a lover?" demanded the Englishman. Perhaps his florid cheeks and thick accent came a little from the drink, as well as nature.

"I have never met your wife, sir, but I am sure she is a delight to the eye and the heart."

"Do I look poor to you? Have I acquired some unfortunate reputation for stinginess towards my domestic household?"

"Why... none that I know of...?"

"My wife could keep _three_ lovers if she wanted to. _Three!!_ "

"She has my felicitations," drawled Athos.

The musketeer turned a little and grinned at him, his black eyes crinkling at the corners.

"My Philochrista is a jewel among women!"

Aramis was still looking towards Athos and Porthos, so they both saw him frown slightly, touch the lacy corner of the handkerchief, and tuck it back into his leather coat. 

"I beg your pardon," he said carefully, "I was visiting my cousin that night. I have never encountered your wife - Philochrista, you say?"

"But -"

"Nor seen her honey-sweet thighs."

Porthos drew breath to speak.

"Or kissed that one, very special freckle..."

The Englishman backhanded Aramis, hard. His head snapped back with the force of it, but he stayed on his feet. He wiped his hand across his face and said, very calmly, "Can I take that as an invitation to a... party of pleasure tomorrow? 12 noon, say?" and he named a deserted churchyard.

"Indeed! Bring your friends, sir!"

The musketeer settled back into a chair and touched his cheekbone. "It's more fun when they're pretty," he added, apropos of nothing. He glanced almost shyly at Athos and Porthos. "Not that I would presume on your acquaintance, of course..."

"I do not duel," said Athos, "not over a woman."

Porthos' hand was on the back of his neck again. "What? It has nothing to do with me," said Athos.

"How's your arm," asked Porthos.

"Quite well, thank you."

Porthos' hand drifted up and fingers tangled, very lightly, in his hair, as Porthos nudged his head like a Polichinelle puppet, filling in Athos' replies with a squeaky voice.

"Athos, my friend, would you like to fight some English with us?"

"Why, Porthos, I hate the English almost as much as I hate any other nation."

"So you'll help?"

"But of course."

"You're a good mate, Athos."

Athos' eyes slid to the side as if, were he given the power of setting things a-flame by sight alone, Porthos would have burned to melt the northern ice. Then they slid shut and his shoulders relaxed. Porthos clapped him on the shoulder. "We're in. It'll be fun."

_to be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why am I letting Porthos haul Athos around like this? It is a great mystery; sometimes stories surprise me. Why is _Athos_ letting this happen...? I think that right now he's a bit touch-starved. At this point there are only three people in Paris who care whether he lives or dies, one of them is the woman he sees once a month about laundry (cough), and Jussac's admiration is strictly one way. So.
> 
>  _"I am such a beautiful killer because of you..."_ \- As soon as I gave Athos a job in a fencing school, this conversation became inevitable.
> 
>  _Philochrista_ \- I couldn't see a name like that and _not_ use it...
> 
>  _nudged his head like a Polichinelle puppet_ \- Bad history! Punch and Judy shows were around but, a) were marionettes at this time, not hand-puppets, and b) I can't find any references to them being _in France_ in the 17th century. (Porthos travelled a lot in the regular army. He saw things. You don't know.)


	4. An Event, Long Awaited, At Last Comes To Pass.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Event, Long Awaited, At Last Comes To Pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long. 
> 
> Special thanks to my beta, DaisyNinjaGirl, who womanfully read through this in its bits and disorganised drabs. 
> 
> As I don't actually know anything worthwhile about fencing, I did a fair amount of research (googling) for this. If you _do_ know fencing, please forgive any factual errors (and if you let me know I'll do my best to fix it.) Cheers.

Aramis arrived at the churchyard a half hour before the appointed time. He liked to be well-prepared for all his assignations, whatever their nature. Though he was somewhat familiar with the site, he paced the ground again, noting the slight slope to the south, and a softness in one corner where water from the last rain had not drained effectively. The bright summer sun was too high to glare in one participant's eyes in particular - unless the fight went very long - but he noted the angles even so.

Amid the trees that gathered at one side of the yard, Athos sat on a low stone, blending into the dappled shadows. He took another swig from the bottle by his side. "My afternoon was unexpectedly free," he said blandly. Aramis doffed his hat and bowed extravagantly. Athos winced. "Don't move so loud," he complained.

Aramis apologised and went back to his pre-duel checklist. Nails: clean, no snags. Hair: tidy(ish). His boots had a shine, and there was an amiable little lace trim to the collar and cuffs of his shirt. (If Aramis were to meet his maker this day, he would prefer to do it as a gentleman.)

Of course, the problem with arriving early was that one then had to _wait._ Aramis was not currently in possession of his timepiece, so he twiddled his thumbs a while and then pulled out the slip of paper on which he was transcribing his latest ode. "What rhymes with 'Bare white arms, clasped about nothing'?" he enquired.

"'Something something charms, something something clothing'?" answered Athos. He shrugged. "I have no heart for love poetry."

"You have never been in love?"

"I have."

The silence hovered awkwardly between them, like a dying bee.

It was with some relief, then, that Aramis greeted the arrival of the pugnacious Englishman and his two seconds. The first he recognised, a young and burly member of the Cardinal's Red Guard by the name of Bernajoux. The second was a thin brown man, who almost floated over the ground. "Jussac," said Athos flatly. "Maestro!" the brown man replied. Athos did not seem to share Jussac's cheer.

Lord Ainsley stood proudly in a doublet and breeches of rich blue, buttoned with silver, his fingers playing over the curved metal hilt-guard of his sword. "I fear I must apologise," he said jovially, "Monsieur, I had believed you had more friends willing to bare steel for your honour, and I chose my allies accordingly."

Aramis touched the brim of his hat respectfully. "You are forgiven," he said. "If you would like to send a messenger to recruit more for your side, I can spare you another hour."

The Englishman laughed.

Athos muttered, "Give me strength," and let his bottle fall. He stood up creakily and shed his leather jacket and the shabby scarf around his neck, but kept his feathered hat, gazing up briefly and reproachfully at the sun. "I have a headache," he said clearly. "Let's get this over with."

Aramis looked around the yard one more time, glancing at the outer gate behind Lord Ainsley. Then he shrugged. "I would not inconvenience you, sir."

It was then that bells in nearby steeples began to sound for Sext. The back door of the church flew open with a bang and Porthos walked out, his wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. "Let's get started," he said, grinning.

Aramis grinned back. "Indeed!"

_Athos' Fight_

"Are we really doing this?" asked Athos, five minutes into a duel that was quickly becoming tedious, as Jussac launched into a series of beats and binds that strained Athos' damaged forearm. It was a sensible, if boring, tactic, and Jussac was good enough that Athos had trouble breaking out of that pattern. If Jussac could not quite beat him on skill, he might win this fight on attrition.

"Oh maestro," said Jussac, "it would grieve me exceedingly to lose you as a teacher. Already I have learned so much from you. You don't mess about with hidden strokes or ridiculous flourishes. Every arc of your sword is a lesson in elegant brutality. So effective. I could be a very great man because of you." With a slight pang, Athos felt the half-healed wound tear, and a trickle of warm blood spread down his arm.

"But if I killed you, right now, I would also be a great man, and everyone would know who was the finest swordsman in Paris. Your last, most favoured student."

"I do not favour you," said Athos, "you were a source of drinking money, nothing more."

Jussac's eyes slid aside to where Porthos fought Bernajoux with great vigour. "Then I shall take steps to be your _last_ student, then. Your one an-"

He choked then, on blood and air where Athos' swift lunge had opened his throat.

"I'd been meaning to bring that up at your next lesson," said Athos. "You talk too much."

_Porthos' Fight_

Porthos swore as his heavy sword twisted out of his grip and went flying.

"I told you to watch your thumb!" he heard his irate teacher call.

"Yeah, yeah..." Porthos grumbled, stepping lightly backwards, both hands drifting up to waist-height. There were more ways to fight than with a ruddy great lump of steel in your hand. Bernajoux lunged at him and he tapped the point away with the blade of his hand. The swordsman swallowed, nervously, and Porthos grinned.

His best friend Flea had gotten her name from her habit of jumping to kick grown men in the throat. Porthos had never managed to get his head around all that leaping and hopping. Bones too big, he reckoned. But a good hard kick to the knee or ankle was a great equaliser, he'd known that ever since he was a kid. An' when you can't cut 'em, or hit 'em, or kick 'em, there's always your teeth.

He snapped a kick at his opponents ankle which landed with a satisfying crunch and then drifted backward, still batting Bernajoux's sword away with his gauntleted hands, until the crunch and snap of twigs underfoot told him he'd reached the stand of trees. It was another lesson of street fighting - the longer weapon was not an advantage but an encumbrance in tight quarters. (Well. The _actual_ lesson taught in the Court of Miracles was, a cavalryman who rides into an alley walks out without his horse, and there's dinner for the family right there. But that is besides the point.) He stepped around a tree as Bernajoux lunged and caught the other man in an arm-bar.

Bernajoux said something unkind about his ancestry and Porthos frowned. "Those are not the words of a gentleman," he said. "Easy now," and bent the man's wrist until the rapier dropped to the twig-covered ground. "That's better," he said, slinging a companionable arm around Bernajoux, catching him in a half-nelson with one arm twisted up. "Now, the way I see it, from here we can go two ways. The first option is, you call it quits now an' I buy you a drink for bein' a gracious loser. The second option is, well, you wouldn't enjoy the second option. But it's your call."

Bernajoux trembled in indignation. Porthos waited calmly. Finally, Bernajoux nodded and Porthos released him with a gentle shove. Bernajoux dived for his sword and, snatching it, ran back into the fray. Porthos sidestepped the wild, unfocussed lunge, and popped him in the forehead with one fist. As Bernajoux fell like a cut tree, he tutted sadly. "It's a sad state gentlefolk have come to in this debauched age. Sad."

_Aramis' Fight_

"This need not be a killing matter," said Aramis gently.

"But there will be blood," said Ainsley, unsheathing a straight, single-edged blade with a flourish. The musketeer nodded, and crossed rapier and dagger in a brief salute.

They entered into their duel gently, _pianissimo_ , moving freely over the ground, finding each other's comfortable distance and favoured manoevres.

"I think you should know: I am a Free Scholar of the Company of Masters of the Science of Defence," said Ainsley. "You may have heard of our little guild."

"I am of the Musketeers," said Aramis, "and I guard the King."

They both leaned backwards, then, as a wide-bladed schiavona sword spun between them,

"I see by your footwork that you have studied the science of defence," said Ainsley.

"I have read my Agrippa," Aramis conceded, sidestepping and circling around.

"And I my Silver and Swetnam," answered Ainsley, shuffle-stepping in to cut at Aramis' thigh and stepping out again.

"Swetnam?" Aramis tutted. "I hear his grammar is abominable."

"Oh, it is. But he had a couple of interesting moves," said Ainsley, putting action to word.

There was a brief flurry of blows that broke when Aramis' parrying dagger snapped, and he leaped backwards, fending off Ainsley's blows with the strongest part of his rapier blade.

"This has never happened to me before," he said sadly. "I have owned that since I was a downy-cheeked youth."

"Not long, then," said Ainsley, pressing his assault. "But old age comes to us all."

"Ah, well," returned Aramis, "a gentleman never languishes when need presents itself." He unknotted his uniform cape and whirled it about his forearm, using it to parry and catch Ainsley's blows.

Under the trees Porthos half-inched the bottle of wine from Athos' guardianship and swallowed heartily. His teacher stood in the cool dappled shadows and eyed the fighters critically, occasionally pointing out moments of technique.

"Do you think we should help him?"

"Mmph."

There was a pitiful tearing sound as a clever strike from Ainsley ripped Aramis' blue cloak. Porthos winced. "That's his uniform." Athos said nothing but, when the duelists had turned so that Aramis could see, he held up his own dagger and threw it.

Aramis sidestepped once more, releasing his cape to the ground as he caught the flying dagger. Alas, he had left a critical opening, that Ainsley exploited immediately. He dropped his sword with a sigh as Ainsley's blade pierced his shoulder, but he stepped around, close as a lover, with the tip of the dagger at the man's throat.

He murmured, "Shall we call this a draw, m'sieur?"

"Damn your eyes," said Ainsley affably, and stepped away. "Jolly good fight!" He flicked out a large linen handkerchief and wiped Aramis' blood off his sword before sheathing it with a swish and pocketing the cloth. "I'm off to m'wife. I'll be sure to pass on your regards."

"Do," said Aramis, rather faintly. His injured shoulder was already starting to throb painfully.

Ainsley glanced at the bodies of Bernajoux and Jussac, the one now snoring, the other in his last rest. "I'll take care of those two," he said, summoning a servant from outside the gate.

"Tell me she was worth it," sighed Athos as they walked away.

"I've never met her," said Aramis.

"Lunch?" said Porthos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because if I have to read this much history to produce a short fight scene, so do you. (Well, actually you don't. But if you enjoyed it, here are the whys and wherefores.)
> 
>  _a straight, single-edged blade//And I my Silver_ \- in the grand tradition of getting most of my facts from the internet - Ainsley appears to follow the style of George Silver, who apparently disapproved of using a rapier in a fight (too much offense, not enough defense), and favoured using a 'backsword' instead, that is, a sharpened front-edge, a flat back-edge (with a lightly sharpened 'false-edge' near the tip). George Silver: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Silver Backsword: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Backsword
> 
>  _"Free Scholar of the Company of Masters of the Science of Defence," said Ainsley proudly._ \- the Company of Maisters never quite made it to formal guild status, but I think they still had a presence in England in that century. (They studied and taught various forms of fighting, including rapier, quarterstaff, and broadsword.) 'Free Scholar' means that Ainsley has been around awhile, and has skills, though not at instructor level. Ref. here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Company_of_Masters
> 
>  _"Swetnam?" Aramis tutted. "I hear his grammar is abominable."_ \- Swetnam wrote a fencing manual, "The Schoole of the Noble and Worthy Science of Defense", 1617, plus an extremely misogynistic tract "The Arraignment of Women", 1615, an entry in a pre-internet flame war, if you will. One of the responses, by Rachel Speght, among other things criticised his grammar and style. "Arraignment" was both widely propagated and widely criticised; we'll assume one of Aramis' lady friends at the salons mentioned it. Ref. here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Swetnam 
> 
> Quick talk on sword-and-cape, courtesy scholagladiatoria: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iTPrpTGEqeg
> 
> I also read these glossaries for an idea of the moves that were made, though I tended to describe instead of name-drop for reasons of clarity:
> 
> http://www.thearma.org/terms3.htm#.VfThANKqqko  
> http://www.thearma.org/rapierglossary.htm#.VfTlhNKqqko


	5. Epilogue:  In Which Handkerchiefs Explain Themselves, And Aramis Makes Another Friend.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue: In Which Handkerchiefs Explain Themselves, And Aramis Makes Another Friend.

An injured shoulder is a horrible thing, truly, caught as it is between the arm, which wants to move freely, and the rest of the body, which cannot get away from the discomfort. Aramis slept fitfully that night, unable to find a comfortable resting place in the muggy summer air. At midnight he was lying propped up awkwardly against horse-hair bolsters, half-somnolent, when there was a creak as the door to the little garden attached to his apartment opened and a cloaked chevalier stepped quietly inside.

The chevalier said nothing, but settled into a chair by his bedside, withdrawing a small pipe with a high-arched neck and filling it with fine, aristocratic fingers. The smell of tamped-down tobacco was rich in the hot air, and a hint of gun-powder, and under them both rosewater.

"A good even to you, my new 'cousin'," the chevalier said at last, in a voice that partook of the bear, having aspects of honey, and aspects of gruffness.

"Are we not all cousins through our grandmother Eve?"

There was a light huff of laughter, then: "How did you know about the freckle?" 

Aramis smiled, his eyes drooping shut. "They all of them have 'one special freckle'. Like God's thumbprint... and the joy is in finding it."

The chevalier allowed that exploration is indeed one of life's subtler pleasures, but: "Even so, Monsieur, there is a regret that you interfered in my business quite so strenuously. I would have had matters in hand, soon enough."

Aramis fluttered his fingers non-committally. "I pray your pardon. I am but a little mouse for the mountains to labour over. Forgive my presumption, but, I thought it best for the lady's reputation if the fuss were resolved quickly and her husband were to see no need to search further. And if the worst were to pass I might have to change my habit, leap on a horse, and find another way-of-living. For a humble musketeer that is a nothing. But rather more complicated for a great one such as yourself." He opened his eyes and thought with regret of how terrible he must look, all pale haggard skin and glittering eyes. "Madame de Chevreuse."

The chevalier regarded him, her large eyes dark, merry, and full of secrets. She smiled and removed her wide-brimmed hat, placing it over her heart. "My poor battered knight." Her curls, so celebrated for their rich golden colour when she frequented court functions, shone moon-silver where they peeked out from under her bandanna. She poured Aramis a beaker of water from the pitcher on his bedstand and helped him drink it. "You may keep my little handkerchief as a remembrance, if you wish."

He kissed her fingers. "Tell me," he said, "is this Philochrista as beautiful as they say?"

"Ah! She is a jewel, a goddess, a peach with the dew still on her ripe for tasting. But alas, rather more enamoured of her husband than I this night. She likes them feisty, apparently."

Aramis allowed that feistiness was very agreeable in a lover, though he had no love of that quality in a spouse.

The chevalier laughed soundlessly; her teeth were very white.

"Rest," she ordered him gently, in her bark-and-honey voice. "I shall read to you, from a text."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _a small pipe with a high-arched neck_ \- according to this site, http://www.ramshornstudio.com/pipe_smoking.htm, women did smoke in the 17th century. The ref was a bit unclear about when styles changed, but I suspect the predominant style in the 1620s would still be small, clay, and kinda... delicate looking. O ye fanfic, the way you make us do research...
> 
>  _mouse, mountains, labour_ \- he's referring to one of Aesop's Fables, The Mountain in Labour, which got referenced by a fair few writers, including Phaedrus, Horace, and Lord Byron - generally taken to mean: a lot of great talk and little outcome.
> 
>  _her large eyes dark, merry, and full of secrets_ \- one of the fun things about rereading a book I hadn't looked at since childhood was discovering the - largely referenced - relationship between Aramis and Marie de Rohan, Madame de Chevreuse. They write letters in disguised hands to non-descript addresses, arrange assignations, drag each other into their intrigues with little-to-no warning, may or may not have slept together at _some_ point (book!Aramis is obstinate about keeping his affairs in obscurity) and are, very clearly, totes besties. Also, as of the later books, Chevreuse climbing into pants and having exotic adventures is canon, so. I expect that, by show-time, Chevreuse has fallen afoul of a court intrigue, and is keeping her head down in Spain.
> 
>  _An injured shoulder is a horrible thing, truly_ \- I broke my shoulder in February and the misery of that experience was rather with me when I wrote this epilogue. To get some perspective, it's mid-September as I write this, and I am only now looking at an end to physiotherapy. (It wasn't even that bad a break.) When book!Athos wanted a duel with d'Artagnan for jostling his injury, _I was cheering him on._


End file.
